“Ellen,” he faltered, “don’t you want me back?”

“Not I!” she replied, fiercely.  “Not you nor your motor-car nor your money nor any part of you.  Come swaggering in, dropping your cigar ash over the place, and behaving as though you’d been a respectable person all your life!” she continued, indignantly.  “What right have you got to think that your wife was made to be your slave or your trained dog, to beg when you hold out a piece of biscuit, and go and lie down alone when you don’t want her.  Send your three pounds a week and get out of it.  That’s all I want to hear of you!  You know the way, don’t you?”

Her outstretched forefinger pointed to the door.  Burton had never felt so pitifully short of words in his life.

“I—­I’ve asked the Johnsons to supper,” he stammered, as he took up his hat.

“Take them to your west-end, then!” Ellen cried, scornfully.  “Take them riding in your motor-car.  Why don’t you tell the man to drive up and down the avenue, that every one may see how fine you are!  Would you like to know just what I think of you?”

Burton looked into her face and felt a singular reluctance to listen to the torrent of words which he felt was ready to break upon his head.  He tried to hold himself a little more upright.

“You will be sorry for this, Ellen,” he said, with some attempt at dignity.

She laughed scornfully.

“One isn’t sorry at getting rid of such as you,” she answered, and slammed the door behind him.

Burton walked with hesitating footsteps down the footpath.  This was not in the least the triumphal return he had intended to make!  He stood for a moment upon the pavement, considering.  It was curious, but his motor-car no longer seemed to him a glorious vehicle.  He was distinctly dissatisfied with the cut of his clothes, the glossiness of his silk hat, his general appearance.  The thought of his bank balance failed to bring him any satisfaction whatever.  He seemed suddenly, as clearly as though he were looking into a mirror, to see himself with eyes.  He recognized even the blatant stupidity of his return, and he admired Ellen more than he had ever admired her in his life.

“Where to, sir?” his brand-new chauffeur asked.

Burton pitched away his cigar.

“Wait a moment,” he said, and turning round, walked with firm footsteps back to the house.  He tried the door and opened it, looked into the parlor and found it empty.  He walked down the passage and pushed open the door of the kitchen.  Little Alfred’s meal was ready on a tray, the room was spotless and shining, but Ellen, with her head buried in her hands, was leaning forward in her chair, sobbing.  He suddenly fell on his knees by her side.

“Please forgive me, Ellen!” he cried, almost sobbing himself.  “Please forgive me for being such a rotter.  I’ll never—­I promise that I’ll never do anything of the sort again.”